The Littlest Soldier
by FrankandJoe3
Summary: Jaime asks Bart what the past was like and learns more than he bargained for.


**We were in History and we got to watch a video on the Holocaust. There were kids. **_**Kids**_**. One of them, he was supposed to have burnt in the hut with his family, but their bodies must've protected him until he climbed out. He told the soldier that saved him, after hugging him with heavy tears, that his name was Bart. And then I sobbed quietly into my binder. **

**Disclaimer: This is very OOC and very unlikely, but I get a kick out of torturing my babies so let me have fun with this universe that I don't own.**

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Jaime couldn't help but laugh before he set his palm to the center of Bart's forehead and pushed him away, shaking his head with a lasting grin. He turned on heel with a brief excusing of himself, insisting he was just going to get some more popcorn and that he wasn't going to fly away like the auburn insisted he had planned.

The young twelve year old whined at the loss of company, but he knew better than to run into the kitchen after his friend from the butter he still had in his ears, antsily moving about in a near fit before he zipped over to the couch and snatched up the remote. It was such a primitive model, with actual protruding buttons! It never ceased to amuse him, frantically turning the device over in his hands to look for the pulse monitor that would allow him to watch TV as long as he stayed calm.

There wasn't one though. All he found was buttons, and way too many for his patience, eventually just smashing them all in a hurried panic. When the screen sparked to life, he shot up onto his knees and twirled, falling back lengthwise onto his back on the beige couch, propping his legs up on the opposite arm of the couch. There was some cartoon on, with a raccoon looking thing and a bird.

"Not interested," he flipped the down arrow, assuming that its function was to change the channel.

It just quieted their "Oh!"s, puffing his cheeks out in frustration as he brought the remote close and let his eyes flit swift over the words. English itself was hard enough to read to him, let alone these shortened words—unless they were English too? He knew it wasn't long before one of the Leaguers sent him to school so he'd actually have the chance to, but Dick was too afraid of him 'spoiling' major history.

"Jaime!" he hollered, zipping over to the kitchen entrance. "What's suh-nell mean? And vahl?"

He did his best in sounding the words out, eyebrows furrowing sheepishly as the Hispanic's gaze darted back to him in surprise. It took a while, a bit too long that had the speedster practically dancing about on his toes, before his friend took the remote and read what he assumed the future boy had been trying to read.

"Channel and volume, ese," the ebony laughed merrily, until he saw how genuine the surprise in the auburn's face was.

He swallowed hard, his eyes lowering as he stared at the remote. TV was a regular thing to him, just like breathing and blinking, and here was an innocent kid who had no idea how to use it.

"This one… it uh… quiets the sound… and the other one… flips through so you can watch something… new," he smiled weakly at the spark to dance out over his friend's face, the remote reclaimed and Bart gone again to the couch, eagerly pressing the Channel button.

Jaime stood still in the kitchen entrance, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips parted softly, a feeling of dread crawling up through his stomach. It wasn't until the noise of the microwave that he lifted his gaze, but he couldn't take his mind off the feeling that he just couldn't shake.

"Bart?" he in turn hollered, pulling the bag of popcorn from the microwave before a gust of wind left an arm around his shoulders for a second.

He looked down, smiling to see how big grin the speedster grinned.

"Yeah, hermano?" the auburn positively beamed before eying the popcorn eagerly, the hunger driving hard into his eyes. "That for me? Can I have some? Please? I promise I'll leave you a few pieces!"

The ebony's grin was little as he opened the bag, dumping the flaky contents into a large bowl, keeping the twelve year old back with an extended arm. The smile drifted off slowly. Just when Bart caught sight of it, he was speaking.

"Did you guys… uh… not have TV in the future?" he asked quietly.

He had to hold the bowl up over his head, out of range, with strong strides to the refrigerator for the spray butter. The pout he saw in his peripheral nearly split his heart in two.

"They're still there, just not in the camps," he quickly blurted out, a whine splitting his pout as he realized he wasn't going to get any popcorn. "Come on! Do I have to play 21 questions to get some food?"

_Just not in the camps._

The game had never sounded more fun than now with the older of the two leading the way into the living room with the popcorn acting like a torch. The auburn followed at his heels, watching it like a puppy.

"How 'bout I let you eat, as long as you answer all my questions?" the Hispanic offered with a playful raise of his eyebrows, tauntingly holding out the popcorn.

A foot to the coffee table had Bart holding the bowl tight to his chest, a nod shaking his head and shaking out the playfulness as he was joined on the couch. There was a bit of space between them, maybe a foot, and it was just enough.

"What are the camps?"

The word froze the small boy with chipmunk cheeks full of popcorn, the look on his face spelling out 'spoilers' without needing to say a word, but he understood that his friend had a right to know. It couldn't hurt, for now at least. He chewed, slowly for once, eyes flitting as he seemed to search for the right kind of words to explain them. When he swallowed, only the slightest bit of an answer hovered in his gaze.

"I… I'm not sure how to explain it… but… the uh… has the… hole… oh… cased… happened yet?"

Jaime tensed at the question, "The Holocaust?"

One by one, each boy shared a nod, urging the one eating to continue.

"It was kind of like that. Any descendents of any big Leaguers were holed up in these little camps and forced to work until they… dropped? Broke? Died? It was usually the latter, if you were lucky," another bite of popcorn was chewed in a matter of seconds, "They didn't feed us, and we maybe got an hour of sleep each week if they liked us. I knew a couple people who resorted to cannibalism… and the rest of them just withered away."

Bart stopped there, tensing at the expression that crossed the older boy's face, genuinely confused as to why he looked as hurt as he did. It was almost as if he was just punched in the stomach, or some other sensitive and necessary part. Just to be sure, he set down the popcorn bowl and zipped around him, looking for any wound of sorts that would explain the expression.

"You… you were… in one of those camps?" Jaime almost choked at the brief little nod, resisting the urge to hug the kid to his chest and squeeze the pain out of him, "Did you have a family?"

For a second, it seemed as if the speedster had bit at his lip and averted his eyes, but he covered it with a quick shoveling of popcorn that he threw into his mouth before he threw himself back down onto the couch.

"I did," he nodded curtly, tapping his fingers uncomfortably against the side of the bowl, "And before you ask, I didn't eat them! Dad… he… he managed to escape… but he was executed for treason. The rest of them were all gassed because they found out I had the family business in my blood. Had to stop the pass off, you know."

The dark brown eyes opposite his were as wide as they could get, the horror written on the glass gaze they bore, a tremble to his friend's darker tinted hand as he went to touch a hand to his shoulder. Instead though, suspecting a million things that would never have been said, Bart zipped up off the couch and sat on top of the TV, abandoning the popcorn with a frantic look to his face. He genuinely assumed that he'd be blamed for their deaths.

"I was there with them though, in the showers when the gas was turned on. Gran and Gramps were the first to drop… they were always really fragile… Mom didn't make it more than a minute. She died brave, telling me to be a good boy and stop all this pain. I think she thought I was going to die too though. Didn't. Obviously. Metabolism just passed the gas through like it was oxygen. When I managed to run through the shower walls, they tried to shoot me."

Clenching the pillow like he would the throats of those who had given this innocent kid the back story he had, Jaime struggled to his feet, his face draining of hope. Bart wouldn't have anything to do with it though, zipping over to the kitchen entrance.

"I was hit, that's how I got that scar on my back, but it fazed right out of me. Just a pinch, really, I'm okay. Got collared soon after, that's how I met Nathan. He was collared too, terrified, agreed to help me get home. How I met you, actually. Er, the scarab. Not you. You're you. Not him. He wasn't you. That's your job. To be yourself I mean."

The ebony threw the pillow at the twelve year old, surprising him enough that he could be pulled into a hug that lifted him up from his feet with a gasp of surprise. He was so light. If the Hispanic didn't know better, he'd say this kid hadn't even broken eighty yet.

"I only asked three questions! I have a good eighteen left to go, and I'm not going to let you break down like this on me, cosa pequeña."

Jaime sheepishly released his friend, looking down into his scared eyes and watching that fear fade off into security. It was enough to raise his hand to his hair, pushing it back the way he liked it.

"What'd that one mean?" the auburn wanted to know, after a few minutes of silence.

He didn't get an answer until he sat down on the couch beside the older boy.

"Small thing," he translated, the scowl staying until it was realized this was referencing weight and not height, "Now… you said they didn't feed you?"

Before a breath could be taken, Bart had his shirt lifted to his chin, looking on either side of the fist holding it at the expression he knew he'd be faced with.

He had been topside six months now. That was six months to recover, to stuff his face and to replenish what his body needed. Every rib was still well outlined against his chest though. There was muscle there, on the concave bit of his stomach that the start of his ribs hung over like a hat with a much more haunting appearance. Every scar matched tint with the couch they sat on, until the shirt was pulled back down again.

"H-How?! You haven't stopped eating since you came back!"

Unconsciously, the auburn put an arm around his stomach and curled his fingers against the fabric, his other hand bringing a stray popcorn piece between his lips.

"You heard of Refeeding Syndrome?"

Jaime's mind raced before he hopelessly shook his head. It obviously had to do with reintroducing food, but he didn't get why it'd be a syndrome. Wasn't food a good thing? His mind snapped back as he saw one of the pale hands clench to a fist, the other delicately wrapping around it.

"This is the size of your stomach now," he pulled off his left hand, just leaving his tiny fist in its place, "This is mine. If I had stuffed my face the second I came in contact with food," he mimicked his stomach exploding, "so what you saw me eating was… probably the only time I was actually eating. With some help from Nightwing, I can eat probably two plates at a buffet, and that's if I haven't eaten anything else."

Everything he had seen the auburn eat suddenly flashed before the dark brown eyes, his heart aching. He had just assumed.

"Hurry up, I don't like the sad. Feels too much like home," the speedster impatiently urged, itching at his arm when it didn't itch in the slightest.

The 'just-punched' expression crossed his friend's face again, but there was a coherent nod this time.

"If you don't like it, we can just go play the X-Box again," he offered, leaning forward so he could rest his elbows on his knees with a deep sort of pain set into his eyes.

Bart touched a hand to his shoulder, just enough that he'd turn and look up at the small grin that the kid bore, an even smaller laugh crossing his lips.

"You're my best friend. If I can't tell _you _this stuff, what's the point of even having it up here?" he tapped his head with a grin, "Besides, I don't think you're that eager for me to wipe the table with you."

That small laugh was borrowed by the Hispanic as he sat up again, the smile siphoning off.

"Just tell me when you're done… when did they… put you in the camp? You weren't a baby, were you?"

The thought brought a nostalgic grin to the boy's lips again and he zipped off to the kitchen, grabbing a pen and pulling a magazine over. He flipped it open to a page that looked untouched and held the pen in his left hand, hand shaking a bit with concentration set deep in his eyes. Then he wrote.

'**B a RT all E n' **

It was as if a preschooler had written it, down to the near scribble the words seemed to be consistent of, but it was legible if you knew what to look for. Once he knew that the teen beside him had seen it, he touched the pen down again slowly, squinting his eyes up tightly as he seemed to put more concentration into this next one.

'**h I mE R ay is' **

Jaime stared at the name for too long before he figured out that it was supposed to be his own, eyes growing wide with a wounded expression as he eased the pen from Bart's shaky hand, taking the magazine close and writing in it.

"I was seven when they took me from the orphanage. There was a Robin there actually, who told me about all the heroes. Said she was the last one."

"She?" he earned a raised eyebrow.

Bart smiled softly into his hands.

"Yeah, she. It was after _your _Batman died of old age. Nightwing apparently was shot down protecting Jason and Tim—."

"Jason's dead."

"Not for much longer."

The shocked look he received stiffened the auburn straight to his core, causing him to clear his throat with a nervous cough.

"Right. But, yeah. Jason was blown up again in their house when he tried to save Tim. Damian had died a long time ago, right up there with Stephanie—."

"Who's Damian? Stephanie?"

"You'll meet them soon. Not for a long time, but you will. Danny was snatched and gassed to get to Babs, who was still in shock from losing everyone else, so she just shot herself. Pretty sad, they all left each other. Sydney stayed though, said she had to help the good kids. She tried to teach me to read and write. I was kind of hopeless though, always pretty restless up until they broke the door in and kidnapped me… met my folks though. That was kinda cool."

He stopped when the magazine was pushed back into his lap. There was a swarm of writing across the blank of the page, neatly written in a box-like scrawl that was quite beautiful, but it all looked like gibberish to the redhead.

"What's it say?" he scanned it once, looking up at Jaime curiously.

"You tell me."

Accepting the challenge, the boy lowered his eyes and ran his gaze over the letters, sounding the words out slowly.

"Thee… nuh… king… do… ess… en… tuh…. git you very far in life. All it… do… ess… is get you… so… me… wuh… row… nuhguh…." he desperately tried before he threw the magazine back in frustration, puffing his cheeks out. "I can't! What's it say?"

Jaime took the magazine back and closed it, skimming his thumb across his knuckles slowly, frowning down at his knees.

"Just one last question, and we'll be done."

Bart blinked expectantly.

"Are you okay?"

Of all the questions and the memories they had brought back, this one seemed to have the most crushing blow on the twelve year old, lifting him to his feet.

"I can't answer that one, amigo. Now come on, I liked that zombie game. That was kinda fun."

The ebony didn't need encouragement to jump up from his feet and jog up the stairs after him.

'**Thinking doesn't get you very far in life. All it does is get you some wrong assumptions, this case in particular. Any thought I've had about Bart Allen until now—it's all been wrong, all up to the fact that he's my friend. This kid… this starving kid that lives for attention and speed… he's the best soldier this world will ever have the honor of being defended by. He's been to the battlefield… and the battlefield's been to him. That's not something you can just leave behind. I see it in his eyes. The scars. That's why he's so strong though. Just try and name a time you haven't seen him with that big goofy grin over his lips. You're not going to find one, because this kid is a soldier, and that grin's his best weapon.'**

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**-F.J. III**


End file.
